In Years When We Get Older
by xmaybejoleisa
Summary: Suddenly the love songs scribbled across her skin and the post-it notes left on her pillowcases just aren’t enough anymore. NickMacy.


Title: In Years When We Get Older

Summary: Suddenly the love songs scribbled across her skin and the post-it notes left on her pillowcases just aren't enough anymore. NickMacy.

"_I think you know it when you feel it."_

It's better this way. Or that's what they decide at least.

It's mutual (or at least that's what's he'd like to think of it as).

Things happen, people change, the months pass by, and suddenly the head-over-heels musings, the crashes of teenage hearts and the love songs scribbled across her skin and the post-it notes left stuck to the pillow beneath her head that she'll wake up to with an infectious smile on her face and a flood of memories to don't seem like enough anymore.

It's not about the obvious (because there's never been anything obvious about their relationship), it's about the subtle signs, the witheringly cold glances across the table returned always with painfully forced smiles, the awkward lapses of silence in conversations that used to be filled with color, laughter, _inspiration_, and soft hands that start (accidentally, unconsciously, knowingly) pulling away at the slight (familiar) touch of callous fingertips. Everything that used to feel natural suddenly feels like the complete opposite and it's like watching a breakdown in slow motion.

They think the words out loud, say their goodbyes, promise to still be friends, and with a polite smile, she turns around and gets back on her bike.

He watches her ride away along the road, sees her haphazardly swipe a finger beneath an eye with the sleeve of her hoodie and for a second, something tugs at his heartstring and he wishes he could take it all back.

Their summer tour this year seems a little bit different from the one before. Something feels off.

The tour bus always feels just a bit empty, despite the loud sounds of Kevin and Joe crooning to "Bennie and the Jets" late into the night, a post-concert adrenaline high of sorts, the non-stop banter of Joe and Stella, the noisy screeches of Joe (note it's _always_ Joe) when he realizes Frankie's taken his hair products and hidden them somewhere as revenge for eating all the ice-cream.

Everything is as it should be, like it's always been, except it's not.

He thinks he knows why but it's weird to think about it for too long so he tries his best not to.

Everyone's playing videogames in the front (or at least is brothers are, Stella's just glowering at Joe) and he can't get himself to write the stupid new song they need completed before the studio's deadline for their new album.

"Hey Nick," Stella says softly and he looks up to see her standing there with a small, unsure smile.

"Hey," he returns quietly.

"Don't you want to go over there and kick your brothers' butts at those stupid, mindless videogames? Let me tell you, Joe's getting pretty cocky up there," at the mention of her boyfriend, her disapproving scowl gets a little deeper, "I think someone needs to go up there and show him whose boss."

He smiles, finally, but just barely, "I guess I'm not really in the mood to deflate Joe's ego tonight. Sorry, Stells."

She blinks in disbelief, her scowl suddenly disappearing and her brown eyes filling with concern and something else he can't quite place, "What's wrong, Nick. You haven't been yourself this whole tour. Everyone's noticed."

He shakes his head, "You know how I am. It's not a big deal, Stella. Sometimes I get moody and like to be on my own-"

"It's different this time," she cuts him off, voice getting a little higher in protest.

He doesn't really know what to say, so he doesn't say anything at all, instead going back to staring at the blank piece of paper in the notebook in front of him.

"No post-it notes this summer?" she asks finally, something in her casual tone, hitting him right where she wants the seemingly innocent query to.

"Jesus Stella," he snaps because they both know he still has them (bright highlighter-colored, florescent greens, yellows, blues, and pinks, all impulsively vibrant - just like _her_) post-it notes, tucked neatly into a small plastic box. He just pretends he can't find them anymore.

"You know," she starts slowly, crossing her arms across her chest, "For the one that actually broke it off-"

"It was mutual-" he interrupts.

"-you're taking this pretty hard." She goes on, ignoring his comment.

He glares stoically out the window.

Her eyes soften, "She misses you too, you know."

"Did she tell you that?"

"No," she replies, before adding, "That's the point."

He doesn't respond because he hates this feeling.

"What's wrong? Tell me, Nick. You know I'll listen." She urges but he can't get himself to speak, everything seems to be knotted and mixed up somewhere inside of him and he doesn't know if it's the fact that he can't just let it all go or if it won't let him go.

She sighs, "Call her, Nick. Talk to her. Fix this, whatever that's supposed to mean for the two of you," and then she's walking back up to the sounds of Joe doing his victory dance at beating Kevin yet again.

Beneath him he can feel the wheels of the busing moving against the road. He sneaks a glance at his cell phone, drawing it closer and taking it in his hand and feeling the digits of her phone number, never actually pressing any of them, while keeping his eyes closed the entire time.

He shakes his head and he leaves it on his bed as he gets up to join the others.

For his senior year, going to a normal high school becomes out of question, what with all the pressure of world-wide concert tours (Europe, South America, Asia) taking place and Joe and Kevin are already out of high school as it is, so it only makes sense.

His senior year is filled with homeschooling in the afternoons and seeing the world in the late nights and it's amazing except he knows Kevin still calls her at least once a week and Joe's got her with Stella's phone calls, the ones he always seems to intercede by swiftly snatching the blonde's cell phone and hiding in the bathroom to ask her what she's been up to lately in the midst of said blonde banging her hands against the door and threatening to make him look like a fool in front of the crowd in Rome.

He doesn't think it's fair. Because they'll never be as close to her as he was, they never held her like did, never talked late into the nights about fears, insecurities, facades and worlds passing by with their futures, or watched her falling asleep as she mouthed the words of her favorite line to her favorite black and white movie, never tasted the cherry flavor of chapstick when their lips met, or felt her reassuring hand on top of his as she smiled sweetly, actions speaking louder than hers.

They still have her.

All he has are memories - the texture of her hands, the feel of her lips, the sound of her voice.

(_"I don't know how to say goodbye. I can't think of any words.")_

Things shouldn't just disappear.

He watches her at the Olympics.

Watches each of her events religiously, never cheers as loudly as his brothers when the scores come up, but holds on to the edge of the couch so tightly, with his eyes trained to the television screen, like his life depends on it (likes he's trying to capture this moment, this joy in the creases of her lips, this happiness in the sparkle in her eyes, as she stands on the podium with the gold medal draped around her neck as the camera zooms in to have a close-up of her face).

Because it seems like it's been years when it's only been three and it's come too close to forgetting what this used to feel like between the two of them for him to handle.

"You okay, Nick?"

"Never been better."

They start meeting again but it's only because Joe and Stella are getting married and Joe's asked him to be his best man and Stella's asked her to be her maid of honor.

It starts like it always when they all meet, with the two of them greeting each other like they're just acquaintances or something, maybe a quick hug depending on the day, but always maintained with this polite distance that he sort of resents but never says anything about because what exactly can he say. This is how it should be after everything that's happened (or hasn't happened).

One time, they're sitting across the couple at brunch and watching them argue over wedding planners and wedding locations and how many people to invite and maybe it's because old habits die hard, but it's almost instinctive, like old times before Joe and Stella even got together, before _they_ got together.

"Well if marrying me is going to be such a hassle for you, _Joe_, maybe you should have never asked me!"

"Maybe I shouldn't have-"

His eyes meet hers, and he gives her that look he used to give her when they were all younger, when these same old arguments used to take place in front of school lockers, in cars, and living rooms in old firehouses. The corner of his mouth quirks up in amusement, as her eyes light up and she covers her mouth to stop herself from laughing out loud.

He wonders how his brother and Stella just never get tired of doing this. But then again, maybe that's the point.

She seems to read his mind (she always used to have a nag for that, up until the end at least, but maybe that was his fault) because her smile falters for a second and she looks away and it's back to awkwardness and pretending.

She takes a sip of her water and he drums his fingers against the top of the table, counting down the seconds it takes for the two in front of them to make up.

"I'm sorry, Joe. I guess I'm just really stressed. I really want this to be perfect for both of us."

"Stells, everyday I'm with you is perfect. You have to know that by now."

"Oh, _Joe_!"

He coughs, "Seven."

He sneaks a glance to the side and sees her trying to contain a laugh as she stares down at her plate like it's the most interesting thing she's ever come across.

He wonders how he ever got tired of this (_her_).

Joe and Stella's wedding goes perfectly (or as perfectly as a wedding could go for the most dysfunctional couple in the history of dysfunctional couples).

They practically make out at the altar when the minister tells Joe 'he may now kiss the bride,' and everyone thinks Stella is the most breathtaking bride and Joe grins proudly, constantly taking Stella's hand and bringing it up to his mouth, so he can kiss the back of her fingers, feel the metal of the silver ring, a promise of forever.

Except the whole time he can't keep his eyes off of her, in her airy, sky blue (he always liked how blue looked on her, the way it brought out the softness of her features) floral dress.

At the reception, she dances with Frankie and he overhears a snippet of their conversation.

"So Macy…now that I'm older, I definitely think we should go out."

She laughs, "Frankie, you're not even legal."

"Yeah well in a year or two I will be."

"Then it'll still feel wrong. I used to babysit you, Franksters. And besides, I used to date one of your brothers. Wouldn't it be completely against the code of brotherhood or whatever." She remarks teasingly.

"What happened between Nick and you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean why didn't it work out? You used to make him so happy. I never saw someone make him smile as much as you did or see him open up to someone as much as he did with you."

There's a pause and then, "What always happens. Life."

As the newly married couple gets ready to leave, Stella throws the banquet of flowers behind her and she catches it in her hands so easily, it's almost like it was meant to be. There are intakes of breath as everyone circles around her, ushering of light-hearted coos, and she blushes slightly, the pink of her cheeks making her look even prettier than she already is and he just can't take his eyes off of her (he doesn't think he ever will be).

Her eyes catch his and it almost feels like the sky is falling down and bringing with it all the fantasies trapped between the clouds and air and for a second, he feels deliriously happy, his heart beating like he might actually be alive instead of just living.

She smiles sweetly before looking away towards his aunt Josephine who's patting her hair and calling her the "loveliest little thing" she's ever come across.

Aunt Josephine always had a way with words. He's pretty sure if there's anyone in his family he could have gotten his art of articulation from, it's her.

He hums to himself as he gets up with his hands in his pockets and walks away.

Maybe he'll write a song tonight.

Maybe this is a sign.

They meet again by pure coincidence and it matters because it's the first time they've met without his brothers or Stella around.

"Hey," he says, finding it funny that of all places he could meet her, it would be here in a coffee shop.

She looks up quickly from the book she's reading, surprised at first, and then melting into a smile. "Hi," she greets him back.

He taps his foot idly against the floor, "How have you been?"

"Great," she chirps and an overflow of affections hits him so hard, he almost feels dizzy. He doesn't think he could possibly feel like this for any other girl for this long, "you?"

"Fine," he returns with his usual sense of collected composure before pointing towards the book on the table with his chin, "what are you reading?"

She smiles, shaking her head and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and snapshots of his mouth against her ear, late night murmurings against sensitive skin flash by, "you'd laugh at me."

He cocks his head to the side, "No, I wouldn't."

"Yes, you would," she nods her head vigorously.

"Come on," he murmurs softly, in the same tone he used when he'd tuck silks of brown hair behind small ears, and whisper into them. He watches her momentarily freeze (because he's not the only one that can remember), and then she swallows down hard, and smiles weakly.

"Well, if you insist." She breathes out, feigning defeat and bringing her book up so he can see the cover.

"Fitzgerald short stories." She continues and he should have known.

He laughs quietly, "I never knew why you liked him so much."

"Because his writing makes you feel like you're in some surreal dream, like you're falling in love with heartbreak yourself," she stops for a second thoughtfully, "just like your new songs."

There's another pause as she looks away.

"You…still listen to my songs?"

She looks back, smiling warmly. "Of course I do."

"They're not JONAS." He states flatly.

She stops suddenly at the comment, chewing on her bottom lip, "That stopped mattering to me a long time ago."

('_you just never realized'_, it's like she's trying to say but doesn't.)

"There's something about them, romantic, soulful, darker. It's why you got a Grammy for the album."

(_'they were all about you, in between the lines, in the middle of all the music, somehow, indirectly, they always came back to you' _he wants to tell her.)

He smiles and thanks her. "You know," he starts finally when the silence is getting overbearing, "critics never thought much of Fitzgerald's short stories."

She shrugs, the light of the sun catching the rims of her hazel eyes, "But I do." And that's all that matters.

"You always were such a hopeless romantic."

She smiles knowingly, "So were you. You were just better at hiding it."

He doesn't know what to say, he just knows what he wants to do. He wants to swoop down and press his mouth against hers and know that it's okay that he's wasted all these years not moving on, but pretending to, because in the end, his heart will always hers and hers will always be his, that everything will turn out okay for the two of them.

"We should catch up more." He says instead.

She nods enthusiastically, "Definitely. I missed being around you."

He smiles resolutely, "Same here."

He walks away thinking of what used to be her favorite Fitzgerald short story when they were just a couple of teenagers.

("_Everybody's youth is a dream, a form of chemical madness.")_

He wonders if it's still her favorite line.

The sounds of people talking from inside, someone's fussing over the spilled soda on their spouse's sweater ("_Joe_, I told you to be careful!") and someone else's coos at a baby's gurgles ("Kevin always was so good with kids."), is comforting.

They sit on the steps of the porch, the summer breeze between them and wall of stars above them, and she lays a reassuring hand on top of his, squeezes lightly, and smiles sweetly.

"I missed this."

"Me too."

"So what were the two of you doing out there?"

"Don't worry about it."

Joe gives him a look. "Nick. I'm your older brother."

"Which is why I never could understand why you acted like my younger one." He says dryly, before, giving him a toothless smile.

He sighs dramatically, "I'm serious, Nick. I don't want you to think that there's something there when—"

"Seriously," he cuts him off, not wanting to hear Joe trying to act like the adult he never was or ever would be, "it was nothing. We were just catching up."

Joe's still looking at him strangely. "Don't get hurt, okay?"

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head, and grinning, "I thought you said my best stuff come out when I have my heart broken."

Joe stays silent for a moment. "It's been like that for too long. I rather see it get better than worse at this point."

He's about to ask him what he means when Stella comes over to ask Joe to put Izzy to sleep because she's tried everything but Izzy won't listen, she only wants her dad."

It's a few months later when it happens. Lives have gotten busier but that's sort of become normal.

He steps into Joe's house, "Hey," he greets him, taking the blonde-haired girl in his arms.

She exclaims in excitement and he laughs, kissing her forehead.

"How was the tour?" Joe asks, and the strain in his smile tells him right off the bat, something's wrong.

"What's wrong?" he asks pointblank.

Joe's eyes dart away from his nervously, and then he takes a deep breath, "Look, just... be cool, okay?"

"What?" he asks slowly, bending down so Izzy can crawl out of his arms and across the floor towards the living room instead.

"Just—"

And then he sees them.

Everything happens in slow motion.

She picks Izzy up in her arms and twirls her around as the little girl laughs in glee. And then she stops, as a guy with black hair comes in front of her. They smile at each other like they're—

"She's gorgeous, isn't she?"

He takes _his_ niece from her and the little girl seems just as comfortable in his arms as she was in hers.

"When we have one, she'll be gorgeous like her mother too," he says cheekily, but it comes out sort of dorky and lovesick and he hates it, hates what's unraveling before his eyes.

But she takes it, her doe eyes filling up with mirth, "You think so?"

"Uh huh," he replies and then he leans down and kisses her like he's been kissing her all his life, like he just knows they're going to be forever.

When they stop, he still hovers in front of her lips, and they exchange a few more words, but he can't (doesn't want to) hear any of them, as she rubs her thumb across the side of his mouth, near his jaw line.

Joe places a hand on his shoulder. "Nick, man, come on—"

He's about to turn around and just get away as far as possible when she turns her eyes towards him – it's too late.

"Nick!"

She walks towards him, her fingers knotted through the black-haired boy's fingers as he walks a little behind her.

"How are you? How was the tour?" she asks, smiling so widely it makes him sick.

His mind goes blank, his body numb, and Joe has to clear his throat three times for him to finally utter a word.

"Great," the word finally tumbles out.

Her smile falters for a second as, as she studies his expression, eyes wandering from his tight-lipped mouth to his eyes. She doesn't anything else though.

Joe looks between the three of them, "Uh Nick I don't think you know Justin. Justin, this is my brother Nick and Nick…this is…well this is Macy's fiancé."

The guy beams at him, drawing out his own hand to shake his, and looking like the happiest person in the world.

"Hey Nick," he says good-naturedly, "Macy's told me all about you, how you were her favorite Lucas brothers when she was in JONAS craze back in high school. I gotta say I'm a bit jealous—"

"There's nothing to be jealous about," he says feeling like the person speaking isn't really him, "I mean it was just a phase."

He looks at her, her big hazel eyes, ebbing with something he doesn't want to understand, "It's over now. It's been for a while."

Justin looks a little taken-aback about the seriousness of his tone, his blue eyes rounder than before, as he takes notice of his locked jaw and solemn brown eyes.

He nods unsurely, giving him another friendly smile, "Right."

He forces a smile back, eyes flitting from hers to his, "So how long?"

Justin grins at the question, instinctively taking her hand, and sharing this (intimate) look with her, "Just a week ago actually."

He thinks if he could he might actually throw something against the wall.

"Congratulations," slips out of his mouth instead.

He watches the two of them the entire night, tries to rationalize that this is all just a twisted nightmare, that he'll wake up and she'll be there, without Justin, without the ring on her finger that glints in the light. He tries to think of all the ways this (they) could go wrong and not actually end up together.

But every minute that passes by makes it seem more real. It's in the way he sits down in the empty place beside her on the couch (like he belongs there, next to her), in the way she doesn't have to turn around to know he's there (the smile creeping across her face an indicator of her knowledge) in the way the back of his fingers accidentally brush against her leg and she turns around, giving him a look to which he only shrugs bashfully, like they've done this countless times, like if it was possible, they would be comfortable in each other's skins.

When he doesn't think he can stand it any longer, he stands up and walks out the door without one look back.

He doesn't go to their wedding. He doesn't make an excuse when she calls. He tells her he just can't.

She doesn't push it, says she'll keep a place for him there just in case.

"I've missed you, Nick." She says quietly (sadly) because she's always hated saying goodbye.

"Yeah," something feels stuck in his throat and he hangs up the phone without returning the words.

He doesn't know what to do with himself anymore.

"Hello?"

"You can't bask in your self-pity for the rest of your life." Stella's voice rings out, high strung, yet grounded at the same time.

"I. Am. In. The. Studio." He grits through his teeth.

"Exactly." She says sharply like she makes complete sense.

"Whatever." He mumbles tersely, hanging up before she can start ranting about, how this is all unhealthy and he should go talk to her.

The record label needs one final song. But he can't find it in himself to write anything more. Everything that comes out is wrong, recycled, ordinary. He's losing his touch. Again.

He's tapping his pen insistently against the table, waiting for something to come to him, playing the notes of the song in his head over and over again.

"Nick?"

He looks up and sees her standing there and this is the same coffee shop, the same table, and it's almost a little too ironical to be funny.

"Hey."

She smiles, "Can I sit here?"

He nods, ignoring the lull pain that shoots through his chest. She sits down and he gets a good look at her.

Her bangs split in the middle, strands of hair tucked behind her ear, and she looks exactly like she always does, except—

"You look good, Mace. Happy." He comments.

She smiles, starry-eyed, "Really? Thanks. I guess I am happy."

He nods, the lull pain becoming stronger, "I'm glad for you."

She doesn't say anything and somehow silence takes over.

"So…Justin and you…this is it, isn't it?"

She looks at him, her eyes matured and a little less dreamy, "This is it." She says softly.

He nods his head forcefully. "Good. _Great_."

"Nick…"

But he doesn't want to hear it. "So how long were you guys together before he asked?"

She looks at him like she isn't so sure this is a good idea. "Six months."

He nods again, laughing a little more bitterly than he'd like, "Six months…that's even shorter than the time we were together."

"There isn't a certain amount of time required for you to know, Nick." She replies.

"To know what?"

"To know if there's a spark, to know if there's something to keep or hold on to, to know it when you feel it. You taught me that better than anyone else."

"And how did I do that?"

She looks at him like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "Your songs, the meaning behind each of them, of course."

"My songs," he repeats slowly.

She nods and he can't help but laugh in wonder. "Well that's just great. I've taught everyone but myself how to _know_."

She places her hand on top of his like she has countless of times, her eyes genuine and bright, "But that's the whole point. You won't know it till you actually feel it, till you actually meet the right person."

"I thought I did." He retorts and she bites on her bottom lip.

"You thought wrong." She remarks sadly. "Because it wasn't me, Nick. You don't know how long I wished it was me, how long I couldn't just accept it wasn't me."

He tries to avoid her gaze and she squeezes his hand even more, "Nick..."

"You can't just say that." He finally says, jaw firm and eyes masked of expression.

"I can," she laughs softly, voice breaking towards the end slightly, "After everything we've been through, I think I finally can."

He looks over at her quickly, eyes locking with hers, because he doesn't want to talk about them anymore, "How did it happen? How did you know it was him?"

She looks at him with glassy eyes, and he can feel the weight of the silver metal on one of her fingers even more than before "It just sort of happened. One day, I just randomly walked into one of the delis off Waverly Place. There was no waiter or server inside, so I walked up to the counter and there was this guy."

She stops, a smile tugging at the sides of her mouth, before continuing, "This guy frantically reading some textbook and when I tapped his shoulder to ask him my question, he just went off about how certain fathers didn't understand the significance of midterms for graduate school and forced their sons to cover for their irresponsible little brothers."

He blinks, "What?"

She shrugs, still smiling, "I know. It's not how the terrible romantic in me imagined it to be. But I guess there was something about the way he just stopped mid-rant, scratched the back of his head sheepishly, muttered an apology, and asked what I'd like to order like it was the most natural thing to ask after freaking out on a customer. I couldn't help throw my head back and laugh and he then he joined. And it sort of hit me. How no one had ever made me laugh like that, how no one ever made me feel so comfortable about being goofy and made my heart skip beats at the same time."

She pauses, staring down at the ring on her finger contemplatively, "And now here I am…sharing his last name."

"Yeah," he replies in awe, "Here you are."

She snaps out of her reverie. "But this wasn't about Justin and me. This was about you and me."

She turns towards her bag, opening it and taking something out.

It's small and square shaped and packaged in wrapping paper. "Open it." She tells him as she gives it to him.

He looks at her carefully, before starting to rip open the ends. When he's finally done, he finds himself with a stack of post-notes. He looks at her, not sure what to say.

She smiles, "I still have all the post-it notes you gave me, with the random lyrics scribbled across them. They were our thing, weren't they? I know you used to love leaving them behind for me and I used to love waking up to them. But I think more than what they meant to both of us, it's about how they made you fall in love with writing songs all over again just when everything was getting too overwhelming. Remember you told me that?" a beat passes by and she doesn't need an answer to know he remembers, "Joe told me you've been stressing over the last song for your new album and I thought…maybe you just needed something to remind yourself why you enjoyed being a musician, songwriter all over again."

"Thanks," he says, speechless by the memory (it feels like it's when so long).

She takes his hand into hers, "Anytime you need some inspiration, just use them okay? Lay them out across the counter table, and just breathe them in – all the colors and words scattered across. You'll find what you're looking for."

She gets up finally, "I'll have to go now, but Nick…when you're ready to talk, really talk, just call me, okay? I'll always be here."

He leans forward, taking the post-it notes, and rubbing a thumb across the plastic cover, "Promise?"

She smiles gently, "Promise."

It's actually at Macy and Justin's get together that he meets her.

He finds himself alone in their study room, randomly shuffling through their bookshelf, when he comes across a bunch of paintings on canvases.

"This room occupied, stranger?" A female voice rings through the empty room and he whizzes around quickly from the painted canvas.

Raven-colored hair, pretty porcelain skin, and dark eyes that glitter of mischief – that's the first thing he notices.

He shrugs, "Not really."

She enters casually. "Good. Not that your response really mattered. I would have come in no matter what you said."

He tilts his head to a certain angle and it only takes a second for him to realize he doesn't think he's ever come across a girl like her. "Well. That was honest of you."

She laughs and he can't help the warm feeling that spreads up from his feet to the rest of his body, at the sound of it. There's something nice about it. "Justin would be so proud."

"Justin?"

She waves her hand off, "It's not important. Who are you again?"

"Nick. Nick Lucas."

"Right. Macy's friend."

He nods his head before clearing his throat uncomfortably. He's not really good at small talk or well…talking in general when it comes to people he's just met.

"By the way, I'm Alex," she says simply, before gesturing towards the paintings.

"Do you like them?"

He swivels his head back towards them. "I guess."

She gives him a deadpanned look. "You guess? It's either you do or you don't. Don't make it more complicated than it actually is."

He can't help sort of liking her directness. "I do," he finally answers.

For a second, he sees something flash across her face, something akin to pride, but it's gone by the next second.

"Do you know who made them. It couldn't have been Justin or Macy."

She shrugs, "I might…it all depends really."

He turns back towards her, raising an eyebrow, "Depends? What's that supposed to mean?"

She shrugs yet again, before grinning cheekily at him and changing the topic completely, "Hey…you know, you're sort of cute, in this mysterious sort of way. Gotta give props where they're due. Most guys can_not_ pull that off."

He looks at her in surprise. "Uh…I'm not trying to pull anything off."

She crosses her arms across her chest, clearly not believing him, "Course you're not."

"Seriously. I'm not."

"Uh huh."

"I'm being really honest with you right now."

"Totally."

And then he starts to get impatient, "Look I don't know who you are but – wait, why am I arguing with you? I don't even know you."

"Because," she quips casually, "Deep down, you actually _do_ want to get to know me which is exactly why you're gonna ask me to go out to the balcony with you ten seconds from now."

Silence.

He blinks. "What?"

"Yep."

"_Wait_, do _you_ want to go out to the balcony with me?"

"Well if you insist, I guess I can't exactly say no," she responds, an artful smile painted across her pink lips, and then she turns around, already walking towards the door.

He looks at her retreating back, dumbfounded by the turn of events, "Wait, what just happened?"

She sighs haughtily, "You ask way too many questions. Stop thinking so much and just go with it."

"Excuse me?"

She rests her hands on either side of her hips. "Are you coming or not? I don't have all night."

He thinks about it for a second, before rolling his eyes and deciding to just give in.

He can't the small smile that breaks across his face as she leads the way down the corridor.

There's something about her. He just can't put his finger on it just yet, but it's okay. He likes it, whatever it is.

And maybe this is what knowing is all about.

"_I woke up one morning and I just knew."  
"Knew what?"  
"What I was never sure of with you."_

-500 Days of Summer

A/N: I know this is different and not exactly the predictable happy ending. There was something about the message the movie was trying to get across that's always stuck with me. I don't know why I had to apply it to JONAS of all shows. The title is from the song "The Sound" by Paper Route by the way.

Tell me what your thoughts. If you liked the ending or not, etc. I'm genuinely curious.


End file.
